


Rumors

by StarsMadeinHeaven



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Overall silliness, Rumors, but shit happens, the one where they have no clue what's going on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-17 04:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15453531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsMadeinHeaven/pseuds/StarsMadeinHeaven
Summary: During one of America's parties, Spain and South Italy kiss under the mistletoe. Rumors spread like wildfire. Only Spain and South Italy have no idea what's going on.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually meant to be a one-shot, but I decided to divide it into four parts, so I could go more into details about some things. As always, comments and constructive criticism is deeply appreciated. Enjoy!

###  Rumors 

Everybody knows America likes to throw loud, wild parties, and since he’s very fond of Christmas, the one on Christmas day is particularly loud and wild. All nations get to go. Even those who don’t celebrate Christmas get a handwritten invitation. Friends, foes, acquaintances, everybody is welcome. America can be obnoxious sometimes, but he has a big heart and his Christmas parties reflect his personality. 

He gives everything he’s got: greasy food, house music, good company and, for the first time in years, mistletoes. There are lots of mistletoes swinging from each and every corner of his enormous mansion, even in places where no one would have ever thought of hanging one. 

All nations are having a good time. Grudges are left at home watching reruns of their favorite shows. America is dressed like a lean Santa Claus with reindeer ears. He carries a bouquet of mistletoes in one hand, a bag of candy in the other and prods all nations to kiss under the mistletoe, because it’s tradition, duh. Kiss and you get a candy. 

Some are willing, some are not. Some are having too much fun with this. Like France, who deliberately follows America around and stands between couples so he can have a kiss from both. Some just blush and peck their assigned partner on the cheek, and then there’s Belarus, who kisses Russia whenever she has a chance. Russia is not happy; America is having a ball. 

Alcohol is flowing like a river. Everyone gets a little bit tipsy. They are laughing and teasing each other. People are dancing. Their stomachs are going to burst open from eating too much. 

But all good things must eventually come to an end; at some point, just a little before midnight, it looks like America is going to break up the party due to his own stupidity. 

Laughter dies out. 

All heads snap to America, who is wielding the tortured mistletoe over Spain and Romano's heads like a sword. It’s their time to kiss. America is chuckling. He’s the only one. He is also wavering on his legs –a sign that he is drunk and not thinking clearly- and his cheeks are painted red. 

Shoulders tense. Germany is ready to spring into action. Hungary takes out her camera and looks ready to immortalize this moment.

Spain and Romano look up at the mistletoe with identical confused expressions on their faces. Someone whispers that America is going to get his ass kicked from a very angry Romano. Silence envelopes the room. Everybody is on edge.

And then. 

And then Spain laughs. 

He glances up at the mistletoe, his green eyes flickering with amusement, and whispers something in Romano’s ear. No one hears what he says, but it doesn’t have any effect on Romano’s mood so it must not be something particularly offensive. Romano casually shrugs; he leans towards Spain painfully slowly, tilts his head, exposes his neck and kisses him on the mouth. It's more a faint brush of lips than a real kiss but it fulfills America’s wishes. He gives them both a candy and strolls somewhere else to play matchmaker.

Everybody is trying hard to act nonchalant and cool when Romano goes back to his conversation with (a very much surprised) Belgium. Nations exchange meaningful looks when Spain laughs and unwraps his candy. 

Needless to say, on the 26th December the debates begin. Spain and South Italy are the focus of every conversation, the hottest topic of the year. Opinions vary on some crucial points. America knew what he was doing. America had no clue he had dared Romano and Spain to kiss because he was too drunk to think clearly. Romano kissed Spain. Spain kissed Romano first. It was a peck. It was a French kiss. Romano was willing. Romano was forced to do it. Romano was drunk. Spain bribed him, and so on and so forth. Who would have thought Romano would ever give in? After many theories thrown here and there like a ball in a game of tennis, everyone ends up agreeing on one thing. This was no accident. Romano intentionally kissed Spain to formalize their romantic relationship. Of course he did. There’s no other logical explanation, is there? 

Everybody already knew, or at least suspected, that Spain and Romano had a thing going on for a while, but now proof is right there, handed to them on a silver platter, and if someone denies it, well. Bring in Hungary's photo album for evidence.

Rumors spread, questions follow. How long have they been dating exactly? How can Spain stand that moody Italian? How can Romano stand that oblivious Spaniard? Do they secretly live together? Relationships between nations never last long. Could they possibly make it work? No, they are too different. They are never going to make this work. Yes, sure, Spain’s always had a soft spot for Romano, and Romano does believe in Spain, but relationships don’t work on affection and trust alone! Romano doesn’t compromise, and Spain is just too stubborn. They both want to be in control. They will break up by the end of the year. 

Nations start observing the dynamic between Spain and Romano during World meetings. If they are truly a thing, surely something in the way they talk to each other will reveal the true nature of their relationship, right? But the thing is South Italy and Spain never talk to each other during World meetings. 

Romano always remains by his brother’s side. He acts normal, almost bored. Spain is always late, half-running into the meeting room with a paper cup filled with steaming coffee from the coffee shop next door. Spain’s hair is messy, as if he has just woken up. Romano never looks at him. He remains sitting in his assigned place, playing a silly game on his smartphone while Italy nudges him with his elbow to pay attention. Spain always sits at the other side of the room. 

That day is no exception to the rule. There’s a lot of empty space between them. Despite the circular seating arrangement, Romano and Spain have to stretch their necks to look at each other properly. Neither of them bothers to do so. Spain’s desk is in a total state of disarray. He’s cursing under his breath, searches through his notes, almost spills his coffee in his haste to get his pen. Germany is speaking, but all eyes are on Spain instead. 

Romano finally tears his gaze away from his smartphone. Everybody perks up. Spain looks up from his wrapped up paper. Their eyes meet. Even Germany makes an unnecessary pause in his speech, but he quickly regains composure. Only America is paying attention to him. 

Spain throws a hand in the air, but quickly lowers it again when Germany arches an eyebrow at him. He smiles, an apology of sorts. Romano snorts. All eyes shift between the two of them. Now Spain directs his smile at Romano. There’s a flicker of affection in Spain’s green eyes, his cheeks are rosy, and some nations feel suddenly a little bit too hot under the collar. Romano’s resting bitchface doesn’t even falter. 

Faces fall. Disappointment spreads across the room. So it was all but a rumor? They are not really dating? 

But wait. Something happens. 

Spain moves. This time Germany is so caught up in what he is saying that he doesn't notice. Spain raises his fist again, extends his thumb and his small finger, his mouth forms silent words. Call me, he says. The nations turn over an invisible mike to Romano and wait for his reply. Some are sweating. Minutes tick by. 

And Romano nods before reverting his attention to his smartphone. 

North Italy’s high-pitched cry startles Germany. America takes advantage of Germany’s confusion and takes control of the stage. It’s his time to talk –no questions asked. Somebody protests, everybody groans, and soon nobody remembers that Romano has silently promised to call Spain later. 

The rumors don’t die down, however. 

They get stronger. 

Why did they not get it sooner? The facts were there for all to see. Didn’t Spain propose to Romano once? Some people argue: Romano didn’t say yes. There is always someone who reasons: he didn’t say no either. Where Romano is, Spain is not far away, and vice versa. It’s been like this since Spain was a colonial country. When did they get together? Surely, not when Romano was just a colony! Too young. After the Italian unification maybe? WW2? No. What if they started dating when Franco, the dictator, died? Spain was having a hard time when his boss was still alive, didn’t he? Maybe Romano was there when all that madness ended. What about the seventies? Peace and love and all that jazz. They are good at sex. Ending up in bed together might have helped them realize there was a spark between them. Friends with benefits who fell eventually in love. Or maybe Romano just kissed Spain and Spain was up to it? Come on. It’s impossible that Romano made the first move. It was Spain who wooed him first. Whatever. Romano is lucky to have free access to Spain’s infamous ass. 

And then why, pray tell, Romano flirts so shamelessly with every girl he bumps into on the street? Spain is a possessive guy. He would never let Romano do that right in front of him. Would he? 

It’s France who answers that question. 

He catches Spain and Romano strolling through a park, minding their own business. France later swears that Romano and Spain were walking too close together to be entirely accidental. Romano is doing all the talking; Spain is staring at a dog peeing against a fire hydrant. The dog’s owner is a beautiful lady in her thirties. She is not Romano’s type, but she catches Romano’s eye anyway. Spain grins when Romano casually walks towards the woman and starts a conversation with her. France later describes him as sexy. 

The woman blushes. Spain joins the conversation. He’s charming, and the woman melts into a puddle of goo. The three of them talk for a while. Francis can’t hear a word they are saying. He’s hiding behind some bushes, but can see them all clearly. The woman gives her number to Spain and walks away. Romano pouts, and Spain laughs. 

Did they act like they were jealous of each other? France says no. Is it possible that Spain did it on purpose? France doubts it. Did Romano throw a tantrum after that? Nope. They just walked in the other direction together, as if nothing was the matter. 

So? 

Nothing. The whole accident is thrown into question again. 


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, thank you so much for the comments! They meant a lot to me. :)

* * *

Belgium puts an end to doubts. 

It’s an accident. The nations have gathered in Brussel for another meeting that is supposed to start early in the morning and end at five in the afternoon. For some nations it’s a long drive to get there for such a short time and many decide to stay in the city for a couple of days more and go sightseeing. Two of said nations are no other than Spain and Romano. 

Belgium had no idea they were playing tourists, until she bumps into them in a local grocery store. She is pushing her shopping cart down the aisle and almost collides into a pyramid made out of canned beans at the sound of a familiar voice. It’s painfully similar to Romano’s, but it’s only when she hears Spain’s unmistakable laughter that she knows she was no mistaken. 

She abandons her shopping cart, peeks around the corner and –surprise, surprise- Romano is indeed there. She lifts her eyebrows when she notices Spain standing right next to him, so close that they keep brushing shoulders when they move. They are strangely interested in the cereal boxes lined on the shelf in front of them. 

Romano picks one up and points at something written on the packaging. Spain shakes his head in disbelief and takes the cereal box from Romano’s hands, letting his eyes scan over the ingredient list. What are they saying? Belgium has no clue. Her eyes are trained on the way Romano wraps his fingers around Spain’s arm, tugs him to get his attention. Spain puts the cereal box back in its place. They look like an old married couple. Romano is annoyed; Spain is amused. Romano points at another cereal box; Spain’s offhanded comment about bread doesn’t make much sense to Belgium, but it does to Romano. He bursts out laughing. 

Belgium is amazed. Romano is smiling openly now, there are tears in his eyes, he’s glowing. Spain’s face softens. He slides an arm around Romano’s waist and pulls him away. Her heart clenches. 

There’s no way these two are not together, she thinks to herself. They snug in each other’s embrace, and Romano starts talking again, emphasizing his words with his hands, and Spain listens, shakes his head accordingly, comments and starts walking in the other direction. Since his arm is still around Romano’s waist, Romano follows him. Their steps are synchronized. Belgium is a little bit in love. 

She walks back to her shopping cart and reaches for her purse. She has to talk to someone about it and she dials Hungary’s number. It’s not a rumor. Hear me out, Spain and Romano _are_ together. Since when? Who knows. Who cares. It’s just fact. 

It doesn’t take long to spread the news. 

What a lovely couple, some say. Their love has withstood the storm of years, wars, penury, and who knows what else. Neither of them is easy to be around with when they are angry or sad, and yet they balance each other out. Yes, they yearn for this kind of relationship too. Where flirting with somebody else is never taken seriously, where at the end of the day no one else is more important than their soulmate. Romano will always choose Spain, and Spain will always be by Romano’s side. Politics, financial crises, ever changing borders, treaties and disagreements don’t affect their relationship. Not many can be that lucky. 

Spain and Romano surely know how blessed they are, right? 

Pity they don’t. 

Blame Spain’s obliviousness. He has no idea that people talk about him even if they do so right in front of his nose. Blame Romano I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude. He just turns his back when he hears his name spoken in a mocking way. You have to be downright insulting to get his attention. 

And the thing is, this rumor is anything but insulting. 

Romano knows something’s up when people start acting differently towards him. First of all, they are particularly interested in Spain’s whereabouts. If he doesn’t know, they are either surprised or disappointed. One day Finland asks if everything is alright at home because the last time Romano has seen Spain was a week before. Romano still isn’t sure Finland was joking. His silly question, however, is not as disturbing as France winking at him after he asks him if Spain treats him right. 

What the heck is that supposed to mean? 

Not to mention the fact that some nations, with which he is not on speaking terms, start asking him for dating tips. And if that’s amusing at first, things take a scary turn when his brother too brings up a whole bunch of weird questions when they are together. 

“How do you make up with him after a fight?” or “How did you know you were in love?” 

And Romano scratches his head in complete puzzlement, narrows his eyes and asks: “After a fight with whom? In love with whom?” 

And Veneziano just rolls his eyes, as if the answer is crystal clear and Romano is just being a dickhead. Veneziano drops it and the mysterious man Romano supposedly is in love with remains a mystery. 

One day, Romano decides to confront Veneziano about it. It’s obvious his brother is in on something and Romano wants to know what. Veneziano comes over for dinner, and Romano is procrastinating in the kitchen, waiting for the right opportunity to strike. 

“So,” he starts. 

“What?” Veneziano asks. 

Well, this is more difficult than he expected. 

“Do you remember when you asked me how I knew I was in love?” 

Feliciano beams. 

“Are you finally going to come clean with me? You know it’s not a secret, right? Everybody knows you are dating.” 

Romano wants to strangle him. He feels the veins throbbing in his neck, but he clenches his jaw and tries to calm down. 

“Will you finally tell me what-!” he starts, his voice comes out harsh. He is supposed to tackle this issue like a grown up man, but then his front door clicks open and Romano wants to stamp his feet on the ground like a baby. 

Of course, Spain decides to appear at the most inconvenient moment. 

“Hi, Veneziano!” Spain exclaims as soon as he spots him. Veneziano’s eyebrows quirk upwards and there’s a knowing smirk on his lips that drives Romano nuts. “Hey, Romano,” Spain greets him, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack. Veneziano turns to look at him, and Romano can’t decipher the expression on his brother’s face. A combination of sassiness and disbelief. 

“What?” Romano asks, but Veneziano just stares at them both. He taps his fingers against his crossed arms, licks his lip as if he is expecting Spain to do something, anything that would prove Veneziano’s point to Romano. 

“Have you eaten yet?” Spain asks. 

Veneziano’s head snaps towards Romano, and Romano is not sure what he is supposed to do next. Veneziano’s furrowed brows are disturbing. 

“What?” he stupidly asks. He is confused. Spain just walks in the kitchen as if he owns the room, and Romano lets him in because his whole attention is focused on Veneziano’s well-are-you-going-to-confess-now? bitchface. 

So Romano does what he knows he does best when he is confused. He turns his frustration into anger and directs it at someone else. The unlucky victim is no other than Spain.

“What are you doing here?” Romano asks turning his back to Veneziano and walking over to Spain, who opens the fridge and peeks inside. 

“I forgot to go grocery shopping,” Spain says. “The milk has expired, Romano,” he announces, as if that were somehow relevant. 

Romano hears Veneziano snort behind him but he doesn’t turn around to check. His stomach churns unpleasantly, and he pulls Spain abruptly away from the fridge, embarrassed by Spain’s nosiness. Under any other circumstances he wouldn’t have minded but this time he feels like he is subjected to a police grilling and needs Spain to have both feet on the ground if they want to make sense of what’s going on. 

“Why don’t we go out for dinner?” Spain proposes, unaware that Romano wants to run out of the door and never come back. The tension in the room suddenly thickens, and Veneziano’s silence does nothing to relieve it. 

“What do you say, Veneziano?” Spain asks. Romano is still grasping tightly Spain’s shirt, but he doesn’t seem to mind. 

“You have the keys to Romano’s apartment?” Veneziano asks, completely ignoring Spain’s question, and tilts his head to the side. Spain mimics him like a confused puppy, and Romano swears he sees question marks popping out from Spain’s head. 

“I do?” Spain half-states, half-asks. Romano doesn’t understand his brother’s question either. 

“Mmhmm…” Veneziano’s weird assenting sound is anything but reassuring. Romano now _knows_ he’s getting the third grade, but the reason why eludes him. He shares a look with Spain, who shrugs. 

“Sometimes Romano sleeps so deeply he doesn’t hear the doorbell,” Spain continues. Romano doesn’t know why he feels the need to justify himself, but in that moment he’s sure that that is not the right thing to do. They should drop the matter right then and there and go out for dinner. 

“Antonio,” he warns, but, of course, Spain can’t read between the lines. 

“So we thought I should have a copy of the keys in case of emergency,” Spain adds. Veneziano nods, but keeps uncharacteristically silent. A lump forms in Romano’s throat and his heart starts beating faster. All the alarm bells are ringing, but, of course, Spain doesn’t hear them. 

“And Romano has a copy of my keys too,” Spain says. “Are you jealous, Veneziano? I can make one for you as well”. 

“No, it’s fine,” Veneziano is quick to respond. He smiles widely, but Romano can read right through him. The sneaky little bastard is trying to figure something out by dancing around the matter –whatever the matter is. 

And Veneziano is going to get his answers with just a few words, because everybody knows Spain doesn’t like prolonged silences. 

“As you wish,” Spain says. “But just so you know, I don’t mind if you want one. You are always welcome in my house, you know that, right?” 

“I know,” Veneziano says, “but I would feel awkward if I catch you… unprepared.” 

“Unprepared?” Spain asks and then laughs. “We know each other for so long, Veneziano! Why should you feel awkward with me?” 

“I don’t know,” Veneziano shrugs. 

“This conversation makes no fucking sense,” Romano cuts them off. “I’m hungry. Shall I cook something or do we-?” 

“You know what,” Veneziano interrupts him, and Romano’s forehead creases in surprise. “You go without me. I was on my way back home, anyways,” he says. His tone is cheerful and nonchalant as ever, and Romano fears he has missed a crucial point somewhere and that Veneziano is going to rub it in his face when they are going to be alone again. 

“Oh, okay,” Spain says and turns to look at Romano as if the latter has a freaking clue on what was that all about. Veneziano puts his jacket on and waves goodbye at them both, a huge naïve smile on his lips. 

“That was awkward,” Spain mutters when the door closes with a soft click. Romano runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head, wondering what the fuck has just happened. 

“So shall we go out or shall we just order?” Spain asks. 

“Are we going to pretend something did not just happen here?” Romano asks, annoyed by Spain’s indifference. 

“Did you get in a fight with Veneziano?” Spain asks instead. 

“What?” Romano is shocked. “No! Didn’t you notice the way he kept ogling at you? Did you do something to him?” 

“The last time we talked was in Brussels,” Spain says. “And I offered him a donut. Was he insulted by it, somehow?” 

“Why would he be insulted by a fucking donut?” Romano cried. 

“It was kind of dry.” 

“I am not having a conversation about donuts,” Romano says, throwing his arms up in the air. “This is something bigger and it’s not just Feliciano,” Romano continues. “Did you notice anything weird lately?” 

“Like what?” Spain asks, tipping his head to the side.

“I don’t know,” Romano huffed, “weird questions, knowing looks, that kind of stuff.” 

“Now that you mention it…”

“Well?” Romano asks, his eyes filling with hope, but Spain shrugs. 

“I’m hungry, Lovi,” Spain says instead. “Let’s just go out and talk over food?” 

“No,” Romano declares. “Just spit it you, you moron!” 

Spain sighs. 

“You’re not going to like it.” 

“Just tell me.”

“People are asking me really intimate questions lately.” 

“Huh?” 

“You know, how we…” Spain trails off. Romano waits expectantly for an answer, but Spain glances at him, runs his tongue over his teeth and hesitates. Romano waves a hand, prods him to continue. Spain shakes his head: “Just drop it.” 

“We?” he pushes. He is not going to give up so easily. 

“You and I,” Spain explains. He is reluctant to continue, and Romano tugs him by the sleeve to bring him back to reality. 

“How do we what?” 

“Your sleeping position, what you do first thing in the morning, if you are a-! Romano, just forget it,” Spain says, and Romano lets him go as if burned. Spain is blushing, and Romano thinks: that’s a first, let’s not do that again. 

“Was it France?” Romano asks. He hopes it’s France. 

“No.” 

“East Germany then,” Romano suggests. 

“Nope.” 

“Fuck. Hungary?” 

“Lovino,” Spain whines. “Let’s just go out for dinner. It’s on me.” 

Romano twists his mouth in annoyance. Spain clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, and Romano wonders why. He stares at Spain as if his answer is hidden somewhere between his eyelashes, but Spain averts his attention somewhere else. 

“For the love of God,” Spain mumbles, and if Spain is on the verge of a breakdown, it’s really bad. It’s time Romano calms down. He tries to put on a neutral face, but Spain can read him like no other, and Romano wonders why Spain can be so oblivious to some matters, but not when said matters are related to Romano and-! 

It hits him. 

“Antonio,” Romano calls his name warily. His eyes widen in fear, all color leaves his face, and Spain is suddenly by his side, squeezing his shoulders as if he wants to make sure he is not hurt. 

Spain doesn’t know what’s wrong. The flicker of emotions in Romano’s eyes is too quick for him to register. Fear, shock, wonder, anger. He focuses in on the last one; Romano’s default emotion. It’s the one Spain has learned to deal with best.

“What did you do?” Romano hisses. 

“Huh?” 

Romano shoves him abruptly away and screams into his hands. 

“They think we are in a relationship?” Romano cries. 

“Where did that come from?” Spain asks, arm hovering in mid-air as if he isn’t sure whether to reach out for Romano or let it drop to his side. 

“You tell me!” Romano shouts, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Fuck. That’s it, isn’t it? People asking for dating advice, Veneziano pestering me, accusing me that I’m hiding something from him, those weird intimate questions and now this!” he exclaims, waving between the two of them. “People think we are together, Spain! Can’t you see?” 

“My eyes are open wide but I can’t see your point,” Spain says, but the joke is lost on Romano. 

“Veneziano thinks we are dating. Everybody thinks we are dating. D-a-t-i-n-g!” he speaks the words loud and clear, but Spain just laughs it off. 

“Oh, come on,” Spain says. “That’s impossible.” 

Romano turns to look at him in disbelief, but Spain’s smile is sincere. His shoulders relax and he doesn’t flinch when Spain pats him on the back encouragingly. 

“We’ve never given off the wrong impression, did we?” Spain asks, and Romano shrugs. They actually did not. “They just want to push your buttons, and apparently they are doing a good job at it. Listen, if Veneziano really believes we are dating, we will just tell him we’re not.” 

“Right,” Romano agrees. 

“So, are we going to have dinner eventually or what?” Spain asks, and Romano snorts when he hears Spain’s stomach growling. He turns around to face Spain head on and the latter squeezes his arm. 

“Okay,” Romano says. “But you have to tell me who harassed you with those questions, because I want to kick their teeth in!” 

Spain laughs. 

And maybe Romano would have forgotten all about it if it weren’t for what happens right after dinner. 

On their way back to Romano's house, they don’t expect to see Seborga and Monaco. 

“Apropos, congrats!” Seborga exclaims. “I heard the news. It was about time, wasn’t it?” he asks and playfully punches Spain on the arm. Monaco pushes her glasses further up her nose. 

“You lucky dog,” Seborga teases, flashing a grin at Romano. Monaco rolls her eyes to the sky. 

“Stop it, you are being ridiculous,” she says. “But, anyways, congratulations, I guess. I wonder when I’ll find someone who looks at me like you look at each other,” she heaves a sigh. “Guess I’m not _that_ lucky.” 

“Now you’re being ridiculous,” Seborga says and wraps an arm around her shoulders. She pushes him away and storms off. “Well, see you around then,” he waves them goodbye them and follows Monaco wherever they are headed to. 

Romano and Spain are too stunned to speak. 


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize to all non-fans for the mention of PruCan in this chapter. Bear with me.

“What exactly made them think we are dating?” Romano asks, picking at his salad. He is not hungry anymore and all he wants to do is to lie down on his couch and take a nap. Spain looks like he wants to do the same. He pushes his empty plate away from him and stretches his arms over his head. 

“I have no idea.” 

Spain yawns, and Romano blows out his cheeks, irritated by his friend’s lack of cooperation. If Spain doesn’t think it’s a big deal, then it’s not, but they should figure out what exactly triggered the rumor in the first place if they want to do something about it. 

“You do act overexcited when you see me,” Romano says. 

“I do?” Spain asks, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. 

“You always want to cheer me up.” 

“I don’t like it when you pout.” 

“Still.” 

“Lovino, I’m your friend. Of course I don’t want to see you sad.” 

Romano doesn’t look convinced. 

“You are pretty possessive,” Romano says instead. “You made everyone believe I belong to you.” 

“First of all, how?” Spain asks. “And, second of all, I’m not your boss anymore, remember?” 

“You liked it when you were, though,” Romano says. “And you hate to share.” 

Spain laughed. 

“If I ever tried to get possessive with you, you would punch me square in the jaw,” Spain reasons. “I might get jealous sometimes, but I know where my boundaries are with you. You’ll never let me lock you up in a cage. Imaginary or not.” 

“True.” 

“And I would never do that to you,” Spain continues. “I’m not a colonial country anymore. Times changed and so did I.” 

Romano goes silent for a moment and then he concedes: “True.” 

“And, anyway,” Spain says. There is a twinkle in mischief in his eyes that doesn’t go unnoticed. “Who says the one at fault is me?” 

“I didn’t do anything,” Romano narrows his gaze at Spain. 

“You are clingy sometimes,” Spain says. 

“I am not!” Romano exclaims, affronted at the mere suggestion. 

“Are too,” Spain says. “You always call me when you are in trouble.” 

“I’ll start calling mighty Germany then,” Romano said, scrunching his nose in disgust. “In fact, I am not going to call you ever again. You’re on my black list now.” 

“You wouldn’t!” Spain exclaims, but Romano can see right through him. He is having fun with this, and Romano’s lips narrow in a thin line. 

“I hate you,” Romano says. 

“I thought we were married,” Spain says instead, not missing a beat. 

“People say you are an oblivious idiot,” Romano says. “But you are not. You just pretend to be. Or you just don’t care to show your real self with them. You are a manipulative bastard, that’s what you are and-!” 

“Do you agree with me then?” Spain interrupts him. “People say a lot of stupid things sometimes. We don’t need to take heed of _everything_ they say.” 

Romano shuts his mouth. 

“They are going to get tired of it, eventually,” Spain continues. There’s something in his tone of voice that calms Romano down. His shoulders relax, his face softens. Spain smiles, and Romano heaves a sigh. 

“Hopefully,” he says. 

Unfortunately, they don’t get tired of it. Since everyone takes it for granted, however, no one is openly talking about it anymore. It’s easier to forget people believe they are dating, if there are no challenging questions they feel the need to answer. Romano enjoys the silence, but the enquiring looks are always there. They pierce his soul. Try to read his mind. Make him uneasy. 

When one day East Germany rings on Spain’s doorbell, Romano knows they have lost their chance to make things right again. What East Germany wants is a double date. Do Spain and Romano agree to go out and eat at a famous restaurant with him and Canada? Please, man, you owe me one. You don’t remember why? It doesn’t matter. Come on, you’re a pro at this. Help a guy out. 

“Canada?” Spain asks. He’s completely caught off track. East Germany scratches the back of his head, shifts his weight from side to side and doesn’t know what to say. 

“Okay,” Spain eventually agrees. 

Romano doesn’t take it well. They are supposed to show the world they are not a thing, and here Spain agrees to go out with Romano as his boyfriend. 

“It’s just for one evening,” Spain reasons. “It’s going to be fun.” 

And maybe it’s fun. At first. East Germany treats them to dinner, and it’s amusing to see the usually overconfident Gilbert Beilschmidt at a loss for words, desperately trying to find a good topic Canada might be interested to. His abrupt manners bring tears to Romano’s eyes. He’s pathetic and he wants to tell him so. 

Nevertheless, Canada is nice, and Romano doesn’t want to ruin his evening. So he goes along with it. It helps greatly when East and Canada see them getting along just fine. 

They make a weird quartet. Spain raises his glass of wine to his lips and shots an eloquent glance at Romano, who understands and snickers behind his napkin. Romano wants to act natural, but Spain makes it difficult to. 

Spain is a good liar, or maybe it’s just his style, but Romano feels strangely very self-conscious when Spain fills his glass or lets his fingers linger a moment longer than necessary over Romano’s hand. He scoops his chair closer to Romano’s one. He smiles at him, asks if he needs something, and Romano feels Canada’s eyes on him, wonders what he’s thinking. 

Romano is aware of Spain’s presence next to his. He can pick up the scent of his aftershave. He can feel Spain’s knee brush against his when he laughs. Canada is not looking at him anymore; his attention is on East Germany. But Romano doesn’t feel well. In the restaurant everybody is looking at them. Are there other nations present? Is this a candid camera? Is Spain doing it on purpose? 

Canada is talking about sports. His voice is so low Spain has to lean over the table to listen to him and presses his leg against Romano’s in the process. Romano’s breath quickens. Spain’s arm is suddenly around his shoulders. He is laughing at something East said. Romano can’t hear him. There’s a buzzing sound in his ears. 

Spain’s arm is warm against his neck. 

Romano shakes Spain’s arm away and abruptly pushes himself away from the table. The dessert made him sick in the stomach, he says and runs to the toilet. Spain follows him with his eyes, but Romano doesn’t dare to meet his gaze. 

When he’s finally alone, Romano takes a deep breath and leans against the sink. He turns on the tap and splashes water on his face. His reflection mocks him. His cheeks are red; he looks as if he has just caught fire. His hair is a mess. He toys with the first button of his shirt, unsure if he should unbutton it or not. There is something wrong with him. Maybe he’s coming down with the flu, who knows. 

He almost jumps back in surprise when the door opens and Spain steps in. 

“Are you okay?” Spain’s reflection asks him. Romano doesn’t want to see him right now and he hates the lost look on the other’s face. Unaware of Romano’s struggles, Spain takes a step towards him and stops short. 

The air between them is tense. 

Spain doesn’t know what to do. Romano has been acting strange throughout dinner, and Spain wonders if it’s because of East Germany. They never liked each other all that much. 

“So Prussia and Canada, huh?” Spain asks, tries to reduce the tension. Romano rubs his eyes, and Spain freezes. 

“I want to go home,” Romano says, turning to look at him. His voice quivers, and Romano starts fiddling with his fingers. “Antonio. I want to go home.” 

“Okay, sure,” Spain says giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 

“This is killing me,” Romano whispers. “Pretending to be dating… it’s not right, damn it.” 

“Yes,” Spain says, wraps his hand around Romano’s right arm and gently pulls him away from the sink. “Let’s go home. They’ll understand.” 

Romano rubs his eyes again, and Spain pretends he doesn’t notice. He’s completely lost and he finally realizes how much this rumor is changing the way they act with each other. It scares him. 

Things only get worse after that. 

Romano avoids Spain, and Spain can do nothing but stay away from him. It’s uncomfortable. They don’t even look at each other during world meetings. Romano gets moodier; Spain resents everyone. They are both losing control of their actions. They suddenly realize that the only person who can bring them back down to reality is now terrified of coming closer. 

Spain can’t touch Romano without him flinching. Romano can’t laugh at Spain’s good-natured jokes without feeling awkward a second later. 

In the end, they both get angry at each other. Resentment spreads like a disease and leaves them gasping for air. Whenever they are alone together, Romano makes an unnecessary comment. Spain can’t laugh it off. Nations walk past them and shoot them knowing looks, and Romano turns his head away. Spain wants to hit him because it shouldn’t matter what people say. 

But it does. 

“Are you sure you really love him, Spain?” someone asks him one day. “Maybe you just got used to his constant presence. You’ve know each other like what? 300 years?” 

“Besides,” Spain overhears someone say, “Romano was so young when they first met. Do you think Spain had feelings for him back then too? That would be horrible.” 

Spain wants to punch them. He clenches his hand into a fist and counts to ten. Romano wouldn’t be happy if he did, no matter how much they deserve it. It would just turn the whole thing ablaze. Just like fire, rumors need a spark to destroy people forever. 

So the anger is redirected at each other. 

They start fighting over the silliest things. Neither of them apologizes for their behavior. 

One day they are riding a cab together to the hotel they are staying in during a European one-day meeting. Romano has his back turned to Spain, his whole attention fixed on the landscape passing by. Spain is biting the inside of his cheek to refrain from saying something inappropriate that would trigger Romano’s anger. He doesn’t need to say anything. Romano is on the edge of his seat. He wants to explode. 

They hop off and make a bee line to the hotel. They have booked separate rooms, but Spain finds himself following Romano to his. Romano lets him. Spain longs to hug him. Romano is afraid. Spain groans in frustration. No words are needed. Romano fills the awkward silence with complaints. Against the hotel’s facilities. Against the meeting. Against breakfast. Against his brother. Against Spain. 

Spain snaps. He was looking forward to it, and Romano knows. He encourages him to. They have avoided talking for so long and fighting just brings them closer. 

They are standing face to face, the rumor in between. The big elephant in the room neither of them wants to acknowledge yet. 

Who makes the first move, no one knows. Someone shoots the first bullet and they both end up shouting at each other. It makes no sense, until it does. Spain finally points at the elephant and says: 

“Stop caring about what people say! Let them speak! I don’t give a damn. Will you finally stop looking at me like I’m the cause of all your problems? Don’t flinch whenever I touch you. I’m trying to-!” 

“Do what, exactly?” Romano snaps. “You are doing nothing to make them stop talking. Unlike you, I _do_ care what they say. Because it’s not true! We shouldn’t be pretending to be dating!” 

“We are not, Romano. Jesus Christ,” Spain curses and runs a hand through his hair. “No one cares what we are doing, Romano. No one cares!” he repeats, louder, desperate. “Why do you care how other people see you?” 

“Because they don’t see me!” Romano exclaims, “Just go and ask any of them what do they think of me. You know what they’ll say? He’s a coward, he’s a lazy-bum, always ordered around by the mafia, a worthless piece of shit! But you-!” Romano throws his arms up in the air, “you have your sunny smiles. People think of the beach and the sea and having a good time with you. And- and-! You know what? That’s not fair. I don’t want people to see me as your lover!” 

“Because that’s bad, isn’t it?” Spain hisses. 

“Of course it is!” Romano exclaims. “I’m tired of being an accessory in your life! I’m either Italy’s brother or your ex-colony! As if I’m not part of this country too! As if the only thing I am good at is to be someone’s handyman! And now –guess what? I’m just a whore! Do you think people believe I was the one to bring you to your knees?” Romano asks, smirking bitterly at his choice of words. “No! It’s a given that Spain is so strong that can make lil’ Romano do what he wants with a click of his fingers! Is that fair? They belittle me. They always had and always will. And you are doing nothing to stop them!” 

Spain’s mouth closes shut. 

Romano breathes heavily. He doesn’t have any stamina left. 

And suddenly Spain moves. He is by his side in two strides and does what he was supposed to do that day in the restaurant’s toilets. Spain pulls Romano into a bone-crushing hug. 

Romano doesn’t resist him. 

“You are much more than that to me, Lovino,” Spain whispers in his ear, and Romano lets out a shaky breath. “You are my friend. You are nor a whore nor a handyman,” he says, playing with Romano’s hair. “To me you are more than just South Italy,” he continues, closing his eyes when Romano hides his face in his shirt. 

“Why?” Romano asks, his voice muffled. Spain traces soothing circles on Romano’s back and feels his heartbeat speed up. He doesn’t know how to answer that question, so he says: 

“This is driving us crazy.” 

Romano makes an agreeing sound against his neck, and Spain feels his face hot when Romano wraps his arms around his waist. This is not supposed to happen, and yet it feels long overdue. 

“Don’t be afraid to stand next to me anymore,” Spain says. 

“You’re a bastard,” it’s all Romano can mutter. 

“Maybe I should go back to my room,” Spain suggests, but he doesn’t want to pull away from this embrace. It’s nice to have Romano near. 

“Stay with me,” Romano whispers, pulls gently away and looks up at him. 

“Okay,” Spain agrees. He lets his eyes wander all over Romano’s face, fixes him with his gaze. 

“Let’s watch a movie or something,” Romano says. 

“Okay.” 

They lay down on the small single bed, and Romano switches the TV on. It’s past midnight when the closing credits roll on the screen and Spain’s eyes are glazed over and tired. Romano is curled up on his side, sleeping deeply. 

Spain feels warm. He wants to lean down and press his lips on Romano’s forehead but he does not. He switches the TV off instead. He should leave Romano’s room but he is too tired to. Spain encircles him with one arm and falls asleep. 

The early morning sunrays filter through the windowsills when Romano wakes up. His first reaction is to kick Spain away from him. It’s hot and he wants to grab something to drink from the minibar. He changes his mind immediately. 

In his sleep, Spain leans his forehead against Romano’s shoulder blades and pulls him closer, and Romano glances at him in disbelief. His shirt is all wrinkled; he looks peaceful, and Romano’s lips tug upwards. Oh, fuck it, he thinks. Romano tentatively puts a hand over Spain’s intertwined fingers laying above Romano’s stomach, snuggles closer to Spain and goes back to sleep. 


	4. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO FREAKING MUCH for all the comments and the kudos! I'm so glad you liked this fic so far and I hope you'll like the last part even more. <3<3<3<3

“Let’s talk about movies,” Romano says, waving his paper cup at Belgium sitting next to him. Spain shrugs when the blondie shifts her gaze at him for clarification.

The breakroom is crowded, the air stuffy, and the microwave right next to the coffeemaker smells faintly like spoiled bacon. There are only four plastic tables in the room and they are all occupied by bored looking nations that just want this meeting to be over and done with. It’s a miracle the three of them found a place to sit, although it’s not ideal, since they are standing right by the stinky garbage.

For a moment Romano seems particularly interested in the brown carpet at their feet, burning holes at a suspicious stain under one of the table’s chairs, and Belgium has to prod him with her elbow to get his attention back on the topic at hand.

“How is that relevant?”

“You said that love at first sight is romantic,” Romano explains, raising his eyes to her, “but movies are a perfect example of how fucking ridiculous this concept is.”

“How so?” Spain asks, throwing his empty cup right into the trash can. Romano rolls his eyes when Spain whoops.

“You know how the protagonist sees someone and it just ‘happens’ to be their romantic interest?” Romano asks, making air quotes with his fingers. “There’s no character development, it’s just… bang! I love you,” he says, throwing his arms up in the air in frustration. Bella snickers. “They’ve got no chemistry whatsoever and you feel like you are knee-deep in a swamp and all you want is to-!”

“Your point?” Belgium interrupts him, hiding her smirk behind her cup.

“Do you think that’s romantic?” Romano asks, knitting his eyebrows in disbelief. “Come on! They see each other for, what? A fucking millisecond and the next they are all over each other. Seriously. It didn’t end well for Romeo and Juliet, did it?”

Belgium bursts out laughing.

“If you put it like this…”

“I thought you’ll like that,” Spain says. “Don’t you always follow women around, calling them the love of your life or something just as cheesy, and-!”

“That’s called flirting,” Romano cuts him off, his lips tightening in a hard line at Spain calling his fabulous pick-up lines ‘cheesy’.

“Flirting?” Belgium asks, not missing Spain’s teasing smile. “I call it sexual harassment.”

“I’m better than that,” Romano defends himself.

“Come on, Romano, we are just messing with you,” Belgium says. “So according to you it’s not possible to fall in love at first sight,” she states, getting back to the point.

“I call it lust, like at first sight at most,” Romano sniffs. “How can you fall in love with someone you don’t even know? For example, they could be a fucking criminal and what are you going to do next? Pray that they don’t shot you because you are supposed to be soulmates or something? That’s not gonna happen.”

“You’ve always been so paranoid,” Spain teases him, and Romano flips him off.

“So first comes flirting and then you fall in love,” Belgium says. “I think that’s sounds about right. But doesn’t love at first sight make things at least a little bit easier?”

“Easier how?” Romano asks.

“You’re not simply lusting after them,” Belgium says. “You are sincerely interested in each other from the get go. You don’t need to dance around it for a ridiculous amount of time before you actually get together.”

“That’s so boring,” Romano says. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Fair enough. But it worked for you two, so…” Bella says throwing her empty paper cup in the trash. She stretches her hands above her head and yawns loudly. “I’m seriously going to fall asleep if Germany talks about GDPs and whatnot for the next half an hour. Shall we go inside?” she asks and stands up from her seat. Romano lowers his gaze to the carpet again, while Spain flashes her a sheepish smile.

“We’ll be there in a sec,” Spain says, and Belgium winks at him before she leaves the breakroom. “Wow. I guess we did fall in love at first sight,” he says fixing his eyes on Romano. “You didn’t even flirt with me. I just became your boyfriend. Like, bang!” he exclaims, mimicking the way Romano has said the same thing mere minutes before.

“Cut the crap, will you?” Romano says. A glimmer of amusement shows in Spain’s green eyes, however, and Romano decides to play the game too. “Besides, you are so damn clueless you wouldn’t understand I was flirting with you even if I rubbed it in your face.”

“Oh, come on,” Spain laughs. “I think you avoided flirting with me because you knew you couldn’t withstand my charm.”

Romano clicks his tongue, much to Spain’s amusement.

“Consider yourself lucky that I didn’t unleash my full flirting powers on you,” Romano says jokingly, making Spain giggle.

“Please,” Spain says, faking irritation. “I am the country of passion after all.”

“You are the country of bullshit,” Romano says, smiling openly now. “You think you can beat me at this?”

“Okay, Lovino,” Spain says, cracking his knuckles, and flashes him a radiant smile. “Give it all you got.”

“What?” Romano exclaims. “Right now?”

Spain puts his elbow on the table and leans his face on his hand. Romano glares at him, but the way he tries hard not to smile betrays how much he is actually enjoying this. Spain winks, and Romano lets out a snort.

“Okay,” Romano agrees. He rests his gaze on Spain’s amused expression and ponders what to do. Spain waits.

Romano focuses his whole attention on every little movement on Spain’s face. The corner of his lips curls momentarily upwards, pupils dilate, his chin quivers when he gulps down. Throat dry, Romano doesn’t know what to say. He wonders if this is supposed to feel awkward, but it’s not. It feels actually familiar. If he concentrates, he can detect Spain’s natural scent lingering under his aftershave.

Shoulders broad, collarbone peeking out from underneath his shirt, thin, kissable lips. He’s handsome, Romano suddenly realizes He’s drawn to him. Spain’s fingers twitch. His eyes are strangely bright. Romano keeps gazing, and there is something in the way Spain suddenly looks unsure that he finds utterly attractive.

He tilts his head to the side, taking him in. He should say something. Even a tacky pick-up line will suffice, but he’s at a loss for words. He just wants to lean closer. Hates the plastic table between them. Spain lowers his hand. Swallow breathing. Is that Spain? Was it him? When Romano feels his lips parting on their own accord, he closes his mouth shut. Spain’s eyes follow his every movement.

And all Romano wants is to see what would happen if-!

“Okay, I get it,” Spain exclaims, pushing himself away from the table. Romano’s stomach drops in disappointment. He furrows his eyebrows, confusion written all over his face, and he’s taken aback when Spain’s expression mirrors his.

“We should go back,” Spain says, licking his lips. Romano nods, averts his eyes.

“Yeah…” he sighs. His cheeks burn, but it’s nothing in comparison to Spain’s bothered look. Romano knows that he should feel proud, but he’s not. He feels like he just lost something. An opening, maybe.

They don’t bring up what happened between them, ever.

It’s something that just lingers there in the back of their minds and whoever admits they want to do it again, loses.

All things considered, they manage to hide their sudden desire for the unknown quite well. When they are alone…

They can pretend to be friends.

“Remember the early 1900s?” Spain asks one day. They are watching a badly executed gangster movie, and the background explosions and gunfire is all they have to fill the silence. Sprawled on the couch, bare feet on Spain’s lap, Romano laughs every time the protagonist says how good a marksman is before missing a shot. “Hey, Lovino?”

Romano hums and finally turns his head towards him. The moment those hazel eyes look at him in puzzlement, Spain wonders if he should have kept his mouth shut after all.

“Remember when you lived with America?” Spain asks. He wants to keep his voice steady, but can’t. It actually takes effort to form the next words. “And you never called. You came home only in the twenties or something.”

“Did I?” Romano asks, forcing his gaze back on the screen. He sounds nonchalant, but Spain detects a note of worry in his voice. “Well, I was dirt poor, couldn’t afford it,” he adds after a moment of silence.

“Yes, I know,” Spain says, “and I was a mess too. So there’s that…” he hesitates. Romano slowly pulls his feet away from Spain’s lap and moves in a sitting position. Zoom in on the protagonist, who barks an order and raises his gun. Romano fumbles with the remote before he finally switches the TV off. Silence.

“What’s up with you?” Romano asks.

“I just remembered how happy I was when you called me for the first time in ages,” Spain says, shrugs, feels cold now that Romano is not using him as a footstool.

Romano studies his face, and Spain slightly turns towards him so that he can look at him better. The couch creaks underneath him.

“Oh, well, everything makes you happy,” Romano says. Is he leaning closer? He is, so he pulls slightly away.

Spain is not having it. He moves forwards.

“I’m going to be really busy in the next three months,” Spain says. “I just got a call from my boss.”

“Fucking boss,” Romano says. It’s an attempt at humor, Spain laughs, leans closer. Romano’s body tenses up.

“But I’m going to be free in the summer,” Spain reassures him. Romano doesn’t know what they are talking about anymore. His gaze lowers to Spain’s lips.

“Okay, cool,” he says. Spain is looking at him, searches for something, and Romano seriously can’t wrap his head around the expression on the other’s face. If he could stop being so fucking alluring for a sec.

“Will you-!” Spain asks and his breath catches when Romano suddenly crashes their mouths together. Lips meet lips. Spain’s hold on the headrest tightens and relaxes. Romano pulls away. Hums, averts his gaze, knits his eyebrows together. Spain leans in and presses his lips on Romano’s right cheek. And further down.

Spain catches Romano’s bottom lip between his and his hand finds a way to the back of Romano’s head. The latter crawls closer, right into Spain’s lap. He deepens the kiss, relaxes, pushes Spain away. Spain grabs him by the front of his shirt and kisses him again as if he can’t get enough of him.

Romano can’t breathe.

“Lovino,” Spain whispers against him. Romano’s eyelids flutter open. “Don’t forget to call me,” he says.

“You too, bastard,” Romano says, cups his face and brings him in for another kiss.

***

Sweat glues his shirt to his torso. It’s ridiculously hot and Spain hates how his air conditioning has decided to stop working right in the middle of summer. He tears his house apart in search of an old-fashioned fan but it’s so dusty he almost chokes on air when he switches it on.

That’s how Romano finds him: dust in his hair and all over his clothes, shirt a mess, and eyes red and puffy.

“You look like shit,” Romano says bursting out laughing immediately after. Spain rubs his eyes but his hand is so dirty he only makes it worse.

“The fan,” Spain blurts between coughs, and Romano gently takes his hand and pulls it away from his face.

“You need a bath,” Romano says looking him over in amusement. He stands on his tiptoes to wipe a dust bunny off from Spain’s messy hair, and all Spain can think of is how cute Romano is when he scrunches his nose like that.

“I want to bath in ice cubes,” Spain says. It sounds ridiculous even to him, but something in the way Romano’s face softens makes him unable to laugh at his own joke. He’s completely focused on Romano fussing over him.

“Yeah, there’s nothing like sitting on hard ice that-!” Romano bites his lip. “Fuck.”

This time Spain does laugh.

“Have we already reached that point in our relationship?” Spain jokes, and Romano’s cheeks flush bright red.

“We’ve been secretly dating for three hundred years,” Romano mutters. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Seriously, though, I need to take my clothes off,” Spain says, shooting a disgusted glance at his sweaty shirt. “Let me change real quick before we go.”

“Do you really want to go out with me with dust in your hair?” Romano asks, affronted. “I’m not dating hobos.”

“But I’m a cute hobo.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Romano says, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. Spain laughs and goes for a kiss, taking Romano by surprise.

“Yeah, you’re the cute one, I’m just gorgeous,” Spain teases when he pulls away and ducks when Romano throws a punch.

“I hate you,” Romano says but Spain starts laughing even harder. “I truly, really hate you and-!” he shuts up when Spain kisses him again.

“I should have tried that sooner,” Spain says, lips curling up in a satisfied grin. Romano tries to punch him again, but Spain easily catches his fists and pulls him in a hug.

“Eww,” Romano protests. “You’re all sweaty.”

“I’ll take it off, if you like,” Spain says.

“You have to, anyway,” Romano says, “and quick. The movie is going to start and we are wasting our time.”

“Hugging you and kissing you is never a waste of time,” Spain whispers, pulling softly away. Romano licks his lips, blushing madly under Spain’s loving stare.

“Oh, shut up,” Romano snaps. “You are just trying to piss me off. Go bath and let’s go, damn it. I’ve been waiting to see this movie for ages!”

“I am yours to command,” Spain says and winks.

“Antonio,” Romano warns.

“Okay, okay,” Spain says and laughs again. He lets out a cry of surprise when Romano pulls him down and sucks on his lower lip. “Okay,” Spain repeats, breathless, staring at Romano with glazed over eyes. Romano smirks smugly at him, and Spain melts.

***

“I heard that East Germany and Canada are dating,” Hungary declares sitting between Romano and Belgium.

The meeting is about to start and most of the attending nations are already in their seats, waiting for Germany to step to the podium.

Romano follows her gaze but there’s nothing particularly different in the way Canada and East Germany talk to each other. East Germany is showing him funny videos on his phone and takes his eyes off of them only when Spain sits down next to him. Romano loses his focus.

“Did you see that?” Hungary asks, excited. “Did you see that?”

“What?” Romano asks, catching Spain’s eyes. He doesn’t care what East Germany is doing, because Spain is smiling at him now and he has to reciprocate.

“He touched Canada’s arm!” Hungary whispers, almost bouncing up and down in her chair. “It was a blink and you’ll miss it moment.”

“When?” Belgium asks, stretching her neck to look at Canada better. “Oh, how cute!” she exclaims a moment later. “They exchanged glances!”

“Ha!” Hungary exclaims. “I knew East was a closeted gay. I’ll be right back!” she declares and stands up again. Germany organizes his notes and taps on the mike to get the nations’ attention. No one looks at him.

Belgium and Romano watch Hungary cross the room to be by Canada’s side. Germany tells her to go back to her seat, Greece wonders out loud if they should just go home.

“I feel bad for Canada,” Romano says. Across him Spain looks amused by Hungary and East Germany bickering over cat videos. Greece perks up at that. The vein on Germany’s forehead throbs. America bursts out laughing. It’s a normal day.

“By the way,” Belgium says, reaching out for her purse. “Hungary gave me this, but I think you should have it.”

“What is it?” Romano asks, tearing his eyes off Spain and arching an eyebrow at the picture Belgium has in her hands. “When the fuck did that happen?” he asks, taken aback.

“On America’s Christmas party, remember?” Belgium says handing him the picture of Spain and him kissing under the mistletoe. “Were you that drunk?”

Romano takes the picture in his hands and stares at it in disbelief.

“I see…” he mutters, more to himself than to Belgium. It’s funny; they look like they are really getting it on, but it’s just a trick of the dim lights and a terrible camera angle. In reality, Romano has not even touched Spain’s lips. Or, at least, he doesn’t think he did.

“By the way, what did Spain tell you exactly?” Belgium asks. “I’ve been dying to ask you but I didn’t know how you were going to react.”

Romano pockets the picture and looks up to Spain again. The other’s attention is back on his notes. Germany taps on the mike again.

“When? Before we kissed?” Romano asks, but the sarcasm is lost on Belgium.

She rolls her eyes: “Yeah!”

“I’ll offer you pizza after this,” Romano confesses. Belgium’s jaw drops. Spain looks up from his notes and meets Romano’s gaze. He smiles brightly at him, and Romano lets out a soft hum.

“That’s all?” Belgium asks, clicking her tongue in annoyance. “Did he really bribe you with food?”

“I love pizza,” Romano says in his defense.

And him, Romano adds but doesn’t say it out-loud. He wonders how long he has. Spain waves at him from his place next to East Germany, and Romano raises a hand in salute. Spain beams at that and mouths three words no one can hear, and Romano can’t stop grinning for the rest of the meeting.


End file.
